All things must come to an end;
The day, the week, the minute.
Man counts the hour alone,
He stands upon his great throne.

I have counted all these things.
I have stood as all men stood.
Everything has lost its sheen;
I have done all that I could.

I think I like how it feels;
To lose each and every thrill.
To hold on by a small thread.
I walk with death as a friend.

I chewed my fingernails down to the bone
And when you moved your lips I listened
With intent to understand your tone
And see your smile glisten

I speak of heavy weather often.
Pouring rain here, thunder storms there.
But today I fell in love with fog.
A form of precipitation that softens.

It makes bright orange street lamps turn into light warm fires.
Takes the busyness of a road and shrinks its view,
to only whats in front of you.
And it is this, that focusing effect, that fills me with a desire.

Now, I ask the gods for soft weather.

These fingers quickly till the dirt for words buried in my mind
I can write free verse or I could rhyme
I can make haiku
Though its not necessary
To portray my heart

Struggle, I have become; I'd like to find my voice.
Amongst many a great poet, I am the furthest ripple from the rock thrown in water.
The lowest branch on the red wood.

Don't believe in such tactics as motivation; a devilish dependency lies there.
No, it must be discipline that is fair.
To write strictly; to write deliberately; to write however I want in those ways.

"Yes, but did you see the way she looked?"
Motivation from the deepest nook;
Inspiration that sings rhymes.
Free verse couldn't emphasize.

Simply put, maybe there's a time and place.
For different styles, and different tastes.
Iambic signature, saving grace.
Freely spoken, unknown fate.